8. The Price of Fame
“Well, now you’ve really messed up.”
I resent Ken’s cavalier tone as soon as he utters those words. I also despise this, having to call him and narrate my problems barely an hour after I hung up on my friends.
In this moment, I’m not a very happy camper.
“I didn’t tell you any of this so you could point out my failures.” It’s only been two minutes since I called him, but I’m starting to wonder if I would have been better served by Alex or Reggie. Still, I know Ken is the right one for this job. Alex and Reggie have adopted the annoying habit of blatantly stating they hope I settle down already every time I mention a girl. Ken is the only friend I have who won’t throw this back in my face.
I couldn’t be too careful, though. So, when I hit him up for advice, I left out a lot of details. Starting with the fact that the “townie girl” I just spoke about is actually the woman that has turned the country upside down since she ran from her wedding.
“Let me get this straight,” Ken rumbles, amusement in his voice. “You meet a nice girl in town, and she wants to rock your world. You turn her down. Understandably, she’s hurt. And now you’re wondering how to apologize?”
Maybe I embellished the story too damn much, and now it makes no sense. Still, I’m ready to take whatever crappy advice Ken has to offer.
Because I genuinely don’t know what to do.
I crossed the line. The moment she wrapped herself in the towel, I knew it. I don’t even know what I said to cause the amount of hurt I saw in her eyes. The previous ten minutes had been a blur of me staring at luminous skin and reining back every single urge in me. I’m barely aware of what we talked about, especially anything that was said when she started to squeeze her tits. The image of her breasts spilling from that damned yellow bikini will forever be etched into my mind.
But I hurt her. Really bad. While Faye Strummer is about the most aggravating woman in existence, I don’t get off on seeing her that way.
I have to fix it. Hence this call.
“Pretty much.”
Ken lets out a bark of laughter that makes me appreciate the foresight of asking him to leave the room Reggie and Alex were in before I spilled the beans to him.
“Okay,” he says. “This might be the most obvious question, but I’m going to ask you anyway. Why don’t you just fuck her? Is she not pretty?”
My throat tightens by an inch.
Why don’t you just fuck her?
I’ve got about a million reasons.
Because she is Faye Strummer, and messing with her means I will get dropped into one of her songs.
Because she believes in love to a sickening degree, and she might conflate my desire for her into something more.
My stomach ticks with guilt. Those are valid reasons, but I know damn well that they aren’t the top two. So, I force myself to be completely honest.
Because I’m dead set on not letting her win this little tug-of-war we have going on.
Because she is still broken from her failed wedding, and I’m not comfortable being anyone’s rebound.
Because I want her so damn bad, I’m not sure that I will ever be able to stop once I have a taste of her.
Because we have only a few days left together, and I won’t be able to deal with her walking away from me after I have made her mine.
Because exploring the object of the deepest desire I have known all my life means exposing myself to something more, perhaps something I have convinced myself does not exist.
My jaw clenches.
There. That last one. That’s the real reason.
Admitting that to Ken is synonymous with placing my head on a guillotine, though. So, I settle for another reasonable explanation.
“Oh, she’s very pretty. But that’s not the point. I just don’t want to.”
Ken lets out a disbelieving grunt.
“You don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to, but I needyour advice,” I spit at him. Turning back toward the cabin, I verify that Faye isn’t close by, listening in. I took the phone with the long cord and stepped out as far as possible from the house to make sure I’d have some privacy.
“You’re right. I don’t believe you. You’ve never called me—or anyone else—about a girl before. Now, I’m supposed to believe you don’t want to sleep with her even though you care about her feelings enough to actually start this painful conversation? Trust me, this conclusion is the best you can hope for.”
“What’s the other explanation?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
I want to punch him. “I’m not in love with her.”
“Good. So, she’s pretty, she’s asking you nicely. Just do it.”
“I can’t,” I spit through gritted teeth. “There’s a lot going on. Any suggestions on how to apologize?”
Ken seems even more amused. Thankfully, he takes it in stride. “Well, I guess you could make a grand gesture.”
“Like what?”
“Flowers, presents, maybe take her out on a date. Talk about wanting to treat her with respect. Girls dig that kind of shit.”
This is exactly why I shouldn’t have chosen to take advice about women from a bachelor. “Yeah, thanks for nothing, Casanova.”
I’m moments from hanging up when he adds, “Trust me. You don’t even need to tell her what you’re really feeling. Just cook up some stuff about how you’d like to do what she wants, but you don’t want to take advantage of her. Say the bare minimum. That’ll get you back in her good graces.”
Bare minimum.
Not the worst idea.
“Thanks,” I mutter. Ken’s suggestions won’t necessarily work, but I can take the parts that hold the potential of making a change and use them.
One hour later, I’m back in the house and slightly sweaty from cooking in front of the stove. I’ve made spaghetti and meatballs, my comfort food. I set the table in the kitchen, grimacing slightly. Making my favorite dish for Faye isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing evening, but maybe Ken is right and this will be worth it when all is said and done.
Once dinner is ready, I knock on the bedroom door. I half expect her not to answer—I have heard nothing but dead silence from that direction since I came back inside—but she surprises me and opens the door. Relief breaks over me as I note she’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of pajamas I picked out for her.
“Are you hungry?”
Ken did say I should apologize, but this is about all I can manage for now. My entire being recoils at the thought of saying that I’m sorry, especially after the stunt she pulled.
She looks up at me with drawn, muted eyes. “Yes.” Pushing past me, she heads to the kitchen. I follow, almost surprised. I expected she would put up more of a fight, maybe even demand an apology.
Her lack of resistance makes me feel even more like an asshole.
She’s sitting at the table when I make my way over. I settle on the seat opposite hers. Awkward silence lingers between us, but Faye doesn’t even seem to notice. She takes a fork, swirls it around on the plate so it picks up some spaghetti, and brings it to her mouth.
“This tastes nice.”
Guilt burns within me. It would be easier if she was giving me an attitude or being a brat like she was back at the lake. She sounds like what I did made her lose every bit of fight left in her. And maybe I should put aside my ego and address that.
“Look . . .”
“We should . . .”
We speak at the same time. The awkward tension multiplies.
“You can go first,” I say to her.
She swallows and drops her fork. “We should talk about my departure.”
I raise a brow, more surprised by my gut clenching reaction to the news than the actual news itself. “Come again?”
Leaning back in her chair, she folds her arms. “You clearly want me to leave. The plan was for me to stay for a couple of days, and it hasbeen a couple of days now.” She sighs, her shoulders sagging so she looks like a broken, vulnerable bird. “But I’ve got no idea what to do. And I don’t know if I’m close to figuring it out or not. So . . .”
“I don’t want you to go.” I’ve never admitted anything quite so fast in my entire life. Hell, even Faye’s eyes widen. But it’s the truth. She drives me up the wall daily and makes my existence a living hell, particularly at nighttime, but damn it, I like having her around.
And I don’t even know why.
“You act like you do.”
I run my hand through my hair, familiar frustration building up. Why the hell does she always have to push? “You were half naked, and I asked you to put some clothes on. You were playing with my restraint, and I snapped.”
I’m brushing over a lot of key events there, but I’m counting on her being too embarrassed about what happened to fight me on it. Sure as anything, she merely swallows and says, “You’ve told me you don’t like me several times.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“You can’t stand me.”
Something about her emphasis on the word “stand” and the look in her eyes has me rearing back. Like she can take anything from me as long as it isn’t my disdain.
Damn you, Ken, I think, wishing my friend were here so I could punch him in his face for giving me such horrible advice. Actually, maybe I should punch myself. For being stupid enough to follow it in the first place. Making a gesture only made things worse.
“All of my adult life, I’ve been playing the part. Everything has been one big lie. I didn’t expect that when I finally started to own up to who I am, the first person I’d come across would dislike me this much.” Her voice breaks on the last word, even if her face is expressionless.
Fuck. Me.
“I don’t dislike you.” She’s staring at me in disbelief, so I try to explain further. “Sure, I think your take on love is weird and the fact that you choose to sing love songs about your fiancé—ex-fiancé as a career is a little strange, but . . .”
A tremulous smile forms on her face. “That’s my public image. And yeah, most of it was fake. But you dislike me apart from that. You’re repulsed by what I think about love and with what I choose to do with my days. You loathe me so much that you’d rather leave your own home than spend your time around me.”
I’ve got nothing else to say. Truly.
“So, I think it would be best if we discussed how and when I’ll leave and return to my real life. You’ve done a lot for me already, and I don’t . . .”
My frustration surges upward, propelling me out of my chair and across the table to stand in front of her. A wary look crosses her face. Perhaps she’s wondering if I’m going to make fun of her again. But I’m thinking of something very different this time.
Pulling her up, I set her on the table mere inches from her plate. She inhales sharply, but her thighs are falling open, inviting me to draw closer. I squeeze myself into that space, as close to her as I can get.
“I don’t dislike you,” I mutter, looking down at her stunned face. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I like you too damn much. I want you, so fucking bad. And when I saw you in that bikini, all I could think about . . .” I take a deep breath, unsure of whether I can finish that statement without a practical demonstration. “I bought you all your damn clothes. Don’t know if I managed to sneak that swimsuit in during a fever dream or something, but . . .”
“You didn’t buy it. That, or any kind of underwear, by the way.”
Her words are innocent enough, but being reminded that she has been spending the past four days not wearing anything beneath her clothes is more than I can take. A groan rips itself from my throat as my hands find her waist, pulling her in and crushing her breasts against my chest. Every fiber in my body is filled with need. My only thought is letting my palms explore her.
But I can’t. Not if it means giving her false hope. She has only ever been with one man her entire life, the man she fell in love with.
Girls like Faye Strummer do not know how to separate love from sex, and coming on to her is as good as proposing marriage. I cannot . . .
Just then, I feel her slender fingers. Not on my arm, or my chest, or even around my neck. She could have chosen any one of those locations and still driven me crazy. But she went even farther, pressing against my cock, which is already straining against my pants. It twitches in her hand, wanting to feel more of her.
I look down at the fire in her green eyes.
Maybe Faye does know how to separate love from lust, after all.